


Now, Will You Let Me Sleep?

by ponchard



Series: They Are All Real - Stories of Minor NPCs [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: And Very Very Bad At Others, Bad Advice, Canon Compliant, Child Death, Childcare, Children, Dathrasi, Demon Deals, Demonic Possession, Demons, Economics, Existential Horror, Fade Spirits, Food, Food Issues, Gen, Good Intentions, Guilt, Harm to Children, Hissera - Freeform, Imekari, Industrialization, Magisterium (Dragon Age), Magisters, Misplaced Trust, Missing The Point, Moral Ambiguity, Morally Ambiguous Character, One Shot, Qamek, Qunari, Qunari Children, Qunari Culture and Customs, Religious Guilt, Shok ebasit hissra, Spirits, Struggle is an illusion, Students, Survivor Guilt, Systemic Issues, Tamassrans, Teachers, Tevinter Bashing, Tevinter Culture and Customs, Tevinter Imperium, Tevinters, The Fade, The Qunari Are Good At Some Things, War, farming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-31 14:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13976715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponchard/pseuds/ponchard
Summary: Tamassrans don't pick favorites. Not on purpose. But that's the problem, isn't it? So many of our decisions happen without our input.Content warnings in the tags.One-shot. A spiritual successor toThe Way of Things.





	Now, Will You Let Me Sleep?

I shouldn't be thinking these things. 

She doesn't scream or bite. She's more quiet than most, actually. The height of her misbehavior is sitting in a corner and playing with the gears, stealing them away from the other children. _We need to share, child. What if someone else likes the gears too?_ She gives them back when we ask, her fingers tightening only a little as they leave her hands. Soon enough, she'll have them again. 

When her real name isn't required, we call her Gears. 

Gears is quiet because she doesn't speak anymore. She cries, sometimes, a rounded bitten-off sound. Mostly, she rubs her shoulder when she's upset, eyes squeezed shut. Has to be her rubbing her shoulder. Anyone else gets hit. 

She's underweight. Giggles at food or drink, dodging her head out of the way. At first, it didn't matter. It should have, which is why I fed her. I ate the food myself when she wouldn't take it, made sure the records showed it was accounted for. If her physical recovery seemed remarkably quick, no one was anything but relieved. If it stole away her words, that was a small price to pay to see her bright-cheeked and healthy. Besides, she already showed signs of talent in arithmetic, and numbers live more in ink than ears. 

I shouldn't be thinking these things. 

Even before she stopped eating, Gears had been small. Food went in, but her body didn't know what to do with it. The record-keepers said a part of her didn't grow all the way, making a note in their books. The record-keepers said that it's good she's holding on, that a mind as bright as hers won't go to completely to waste. The record-keepers were satisfied with her. But they drew a thick black line through the pairing that made her.

I wonder if they've scratched out the line now. Rewritten the names side by side. If she could touch the book, would she poke a finger at the blemish, running her finger along the grooves in the paper? Would she scratch the back of her nail along the ink, feeling the tiny tiny bump of it? Gears loves interesting textures, when she doesn't hate them. We put on her pants inside-out so the seams don't chafe. 

All of that happened before, too. While her body ate itself. Some days it had seemed like the textures were attacking her, confusing her stomach somehow. She would shrink away from everything, squeeze her eyes tight. Rub her shoulder, just like she does now. She's the same. Healthier, and the same. 

She pats my leg, gears clutched in her other hand. "What is it, little one?"

_By Koslun, she really is shrinking again._

"Do you want a snack?" She laughs at that, like always. I put my hand on her back anyway, guiding her to the storeroom. "Let's see what we can find!" When we get to the barrels, Gears smooths her hands along them, fluttering her palms just off the wood. She tilts her head, walking from barrel to barrel. Once she's touched them all, she plops herself down on the other side of the room, gouging bits of dirt out of the tile with the gears' edge.

So I pick a barrel at random, grab a handful of dried berries. I sit down in front of her. "These are sweet, remember?" I hold the first one up, popping it in my mouth with a grin. "Mmmmmmm." She balances the toy on its end, pushing on the top with one finger. 

_"No berries, you need mild food." A skeletal hand pushes weakly against mine. She's pouting. Not at me, in particular. I'm in the way. The whole world is behind me, and maybe that’s worth pouting at. "Berries."_

I shouldn't be thinking these things. 

In the present, she giggles, turning her head side to side when I offer one to her. I want to laugh too, but I don't want to encourage this. I want her to eat. I want her to remember what it means to be hungry. Perhaps "remember" isn't a precise enough word.

Not for the first time, I recall qamek. Qamek lays everything bare, erases every distraction. All but the deepest instincts. Instincts like breathing, like eating. 

Ah, but those are _our_ deepest instincts. 

She's curving out of the storage room now, already losing interest. The gears clack in time with her steps, light enough to stick to her fingers on each bounce. The Rivaini have these little cymbals they tie to their thumbs, clash-clash-clash. They're like that. 

She probably heard the door squeaking. There's more rustling in the main hall. Once a week, we bring in visitors from different jobs. This week’s supposed to be ranchers. Hardly the profession I’d expect Gears to be excited for, though that’s sort of the point. At this age, everything is in flux. _Better follow her._ Out of habit, I toss the berries in my mouth and mark them down under her name.

The ranchers are setting up at the front of the hall, coordinating with one of the other teachers. They’re hauling in stacks of raw leather, bags of feed, and a neat arrangement of tools. Ways to touch and see what they do. One rancher is passing around little strips of jerky, describing some of the larger machines she uses. 

“Down south, about 9 of every 10 grown-ups have to help make food.” She holds up jerky sticks to illustrate, 9 in one hand and 1 in the other. “See, only 1 person can do something different. Everyone else is busy.”

She transfers 5 sticks to her other hand. “For us, almost two thirds of our people don’t have to worry about making food. That’s a lot more! Can anyone guess why that is?”

“Because their tamas tell them not to,” one girl says, confidently. 

“Good guess, but your tamas can’t tell people’s tummies to stop rumbling — though maybe they tell you otherwise.” She winks. “We still need to feed everybody. How do we do all that work with less people?”

“We’re stronger!” The boy’s casebook is a column of increasingly bolder “stens”. 

The rancher laughs. “That attitude is a good way to get trampled. I’ve got big muscles, but dathrasi muscles are _even bigger_. Any other guesses?” She rounds the table to where Gears is sitting, looking curiously down at the sweaty toy in her hands. Holding out a piece of jerky, she says, “what about you? Do you have any ideas?”

Gears looks up, with a frown of concentration. 

_At least the records show she just-_

Before I can finish the thought, she reaches up and grabs the jerky, stuffing the gears into the rancher’s hand in exchange. She bites down on the treat triumphantly, nodding as she chews. 

The rancher makes some point about machines and efficiency and the marvels of modern engineering, lofting the gears in the air, but I can barely hear it. Gears isn’t looking my way. Not physically. Yet I’m struck by a sudden image of the dathrasi in the fields, a memory that certainly isn’t mine. Something about them is wrong. I don’t know enough about animal husbandry to pinpoint it, but the sound of their grunting feels off-key.

The vision is at an odd angle, just a hair taller than I should be. As the memory pushes through the herd, I see a glimpse of her arm, corded and coppery. Her hand is clasped around a bottle, a strip of paper wound around it. 

There’s an imprint on the paper. When her arm swings into view again, I see it. A snake and a dragon, twisted together. Above it, I can make out just one word. _Distraction._

The image snaps away. At some point, Gears has gotten up and is tugging on the edge of my pants again, face scrunched up like someone who needs to relieve herself. I take her hand as casually as I can, letting my eyes roam across the room as we walk. At the tables, one child yawns. Then another. Scrubbing their eyes and shaking their heads. 

I force my gait to stay leisurely. Perhaps it’s cowardice. At this moment, if I speak up, perhaps other children could be walked out. But how would I explain all this, when no one else saw the word? And oh, it’s a cruel one. They know exactly how we’d agonize over how many we can carry. While they lie in wait, fearless, knowing we’ll be far too slow. It’s how they mean to trap us, too. 

_Is it selfishness or practicality, if I'd rather be too quick?_ One of the ranchers in the front looks at me sharply, a twitch of muscle on her copper-colored skin. I smile and shrug back, patting Gears’ head as I walk. 

The door is blocked. Of course it is. We have a head start, though, and I’m used to moving stubborn things. I think that’s the first talent my teachers noted, when I was a little younger than her. _Than all of them._ Behind me, I hear one of the other teachers scolding someone for lack of attention. I wonder when they’ll realize. If they'll think me part of this conspiracy, that I left when I did. And if they knew the whole of it... I know the whole of it, and I know that mastery is the furthest thing from my mind. 

I shouldn’t be thinking these things. 

The door shifts suddenly, a rush of sound on the other side, like a feed bag tipped over. I squeeze through, pulling Gears behind me, and try to kick the sacks clear. If I prop the door open, how many will get through? 

Her hand tightens on my arm. 

They’re among the trees. About a hundred paces out. Not dressed in robes, which is more discretion than I’d expect from Vints. They haven’t bothered to hide much else. Shiny pomade, dark kohl, flashes of gold beneath their disguises. And they’re too perfectly positioned, closing in on each door. I abandon mine, slanting into the foliage. 

The statue resists the tide, and is worn down. 

Rudders slice the sea, and are pitted to dust by the salt. 

Mages bend the elements, and every fiber of nature whips back against their soft Tevinter skin. 

As for us, we take our children out to play in the sun and leaves, so the next generation is at harmony with the world. Today, the sun and leaves brush us into shadows, heat whipping up behind us. For children of towers, the sun is too warm to bother with two witnesses, and the prickly-haired leaves might as well be a wall behind us. With our arms free, we are quick. We are quick, and we are safe. Perversely, we are safer now than before. Before, our secret laid alone. Anomalous. Now it’s a statistic, and no one will work too hard to identify it. 

I shouldn’t be thinking these things. 

For I know where we must go. Who we must talk to. Who we should warn, so they’ll root out this madness before the Vints find someone else to turn. In truth, I should have gone to them long ago. Before... well, anyway, they wouldn’t waste thread on me now. 

But I shouldn’t be thinking these things. I need to get my story straight. Fortunate timing. A rancher’s confession. Send the investigators, search for blackmail, question everyone until they break, until you know the answers, until this never happens again. 

Only don’t question me. I’ve raised Ben-Hassrath. I know what you can do. When my mouth snaps shut, when my lips stitch themselves snug, please, please do not loosen them. If you make me speak, who knows what whispers may pour out? And then you would be as lost as I. As for me, do not think to sway me. Whatever you say, I will not bury her again.

**Author's Note:**

> The Qunari have an impressively low proportion of people doing farm/manufacturing/merchant work under the Arigena. To our current knowledge, people working under the Arigena can only be women, and some of the women work under the Ariqun. Also, any women saarebas would be used as weapons, and would probably not go to the Arigena. 
> 
> Assuming that aqun-athloks and viddathari are both roughly balanced, that puts significantly less than 50% of the population under the Arigena. As a real world comparison, about 30% of China’s workforce works in agriculture alone, and they have much more modern tech than the Qunari (across the world, the percentage varies greatly based on mechanization, with some countries at upwards of 70% and others at closer to 1%). China also exists in a world with other industrialized societies. The Qunari would have a rough time sourcing machinery or materials from other countries, and would have to make much of their tech from scratch. Kal-Sharok might be able to manufacture some parts, but they’re friendly with Tevinter, and likely uninterested in surface farming tech.
> 
> There are some caveats, of course. For one, the Qunari explicitly provision “household” roles like childcare and cooking, which are often undercounted/ignored when countries report their labor force. Secondly, the tamassrans may be manipulating the sex ratios, [though doing so will become more and more difficult with each generation](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fisher%27s_principle). They might have more success with “temporarily” having soldiers farm. Just as Qunari women can fight if needed, Qunari men can farm if necessary.
> 
> Lastly, like many societies, the Qunari do have a population of... extra... workers. For the Qunari, that role is filled by viddath-bas. This sheds an economic light on the Ben-Hassrath’s purpose. While nominally, they police the Qunari for religious reasons, they’re also filling a gap in the workforce. [Just like in the real world](https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2017/12/how-much-longer-will-inmates-fight-californias-wildfires/547628/), this creates a perverse incentive: even if the Qunari are “well-behaved” by the Qun’s standards, the Ben-Hassrath face pressure to provide a steady supply of "failed" Qunari.


End file.
